


To see the face of God

by ironicallyinternational



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - World War I, Alternate Universe - World War II, M/M, Not a Sad Story, fuck u victor hugo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 03:00:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3593862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironicallyinternational/pseuds/ironicallyinternational
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(do you permit it)</p><p>Three times Grantaire and Enjorlas stopped Death, and one time they didn't have to.<br/>(or the one in which the Amis come together during two world wars, and then at some hipster café)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Poppy fields

**Author's Note:**

> And the first part of this story we all know.
> 
> (Enjorlas centric first chapter.)

//Enjorlas was a charming young man capable of being terrible.//

“Be serious.”  
“I am wild.”

(Do you permit it?)  
\--------------------------

There are two lifetimes in which they meet, kind of, barely, and perhaps those are the worst, because life feels so pointless without the Amis.

\--------------------------  
They meet at various points during the year of 1913, young men of sixteen, seventeen, full of life and that immortality that youth wears so well. Enjorlas, as always, becomes their leader without asking for it- he's Enjorlas, after all. The war breaks out when they are all seventeen, and the hand of Death stretches out towards them yet again, but Enjorlas refuses to volunteer, because he will only fight for worthy causes, so none of them do. 

(This is not our fight.)  
(How noble, Apollo!)

He accepts the white feathers with a withering, profound glare, while the others try to make light of it. Jehan makes crowns out of their collection, Bahorel suggests opening a museum, and Grantaire, dead-pan as always, stuffs a pillow with them. Still, it is never easy to watch others die, and for a reason they can't quite explain, it feels worse for them; as if they are somehow used to the opposite, to dying while others watch.

The war is taking its toll, and Enjorlas hates it with a passion. A massacre brought on by the arrogance and misplaced honour of old men, he calls it, and it shall ruin this country. Even Enjorlas cannot stop the greed of the Lady, thrice cheated of her prize by now (barricades, napoleons and prussians, but it hasn't ended yet), and so as they turn eighteen they are taken away. They end up split into little groups all along the front, and now they see Her every day and wonder why she looks so familiar.

They send letters that arrive late, from Grantaire mocking Enjorlas (“he's going to march over to the Prusses next thing you know”) to Courfeyrac teasing about Marius (“he writes to Cosette everyday”) and Feuilly and Bahorel bickering even when writing (“I apologize, the brute has interfered yet ag-”), keep each other's spirits high, and sometimes they are vividly reminded of a room in Paris with the singing of revolutionaries.

They get a break in December, and finally meet up, Courfeyrac making fun of their appearance and making Cosette laugh despite her worry (“I do think the lady will need other company!”). Funnily enough, Enjorlas and Grantaire are the two that seem the better off- while their leader is certainly paler and more tired, his golden locks and impassioned eyes still burn as bright as always, and Grantaire's childhood has rendered him more prepared for death and devastation: if their cynic is affected, they can only see it by the darker rings under his eyes, for the damage lies inside.  
That is the case for all of them, bien sur, but they choose not to comment on Joly's twitching and Combeferre's spacing out, and pretend not to notice how Courf jumps at the slam of a door or how Feuilly and Bahorel stand closer to one another, ready to protect. That's another common attribute: the pairs of them that fight together, connected by the shared memories of faces and voices long gone, often move in unison, unconsciously still on the battleground. 

They laugh and hug when they say goodbye, kiss Cosette and Eponine, and leave, not knowing they will never meet again in this lifetime. Enjorlas and Grantaire set off to the front side by side and silent. They receive the letter from Courf weeks late, telling them shortly of Priv. Feuilly and Bahorel, deceased with honors, and Grantaire laughs desperately, buries his head in his hands and manages to find wine somewhere to get drunk on. Enjorlas stays numb, silent, watching the Lady laugh. After that, Joly and Bossuet are gone, then Marius is sent to hospital (in a wheelchair for life) and soon, ridiculously soon, Courf and Combe have left them, and then Jehan, and -again of course like always- they remain the last two. 

They are sent to Verdun in november 1916, and by some miracle do not die there (or perhaps do not die there physically would be more accurate), sent then to the front where the desperate Germans are attacking in a frenzy. “They're going to lose.” Grantaire says one night. “But there'll be more wars.” Enjorlas doesn't respond, but looks at him musingly. 

He asks the question two days later: “Why are we still alive?” An Grantaire, for once, is quiet. “I don't know.”

Enjorlas nods. 

 

A week later, he crawls out to the middle ground and drags a wounded Prussian boy over to their side, unnoticed amidst the bombs and bullets. The kid must be fifteen at most, and stares at him with confused, resigned eyes. “Tell him he's to take my uniform and pretend to be deafened and muted. He'll be taken to a hospital and survive.” Grantaire doesn't ask how Enjorlas knows he speaks German, that he's from Alsace, but he tells the boy anyway, and watches the flicker of hope in his eyes. He distantly remembers that Eponine grew up in Germany, but there is no time for that now, regardless of the kid's eyes. “What's your name?” he asks as the boy pulls on the uniform, blood leaking from his hair. “Je m'appelle Gavroche.” He manages in broken French, and then, “Danke, danke.” 

When the stretchers arrive, Enjorlas sends him off to a hospital, using his father's name as authority.  
He sits with a furrowed brow that evening, and Grantaire doesn't know what to say. Somewhere between you absolute idiot, you could have died and that was brilliant. Then again, that's about normal with Enjorlas. Instead, he simply states: “Gavroche says thanks.” 

They know, the night of the bombs, that it's all over. 

They're lucky, Grantaire supposes, not blown to bits but hit by shrapnel, and even then he receives a big piece, lodging itself in his lung, so his death will be fast if not painless. It's luckier than he's ever been, so when he crumples to the ground he manages to smile wryly. Enjorlas sinks next to him, and that pulls him out of his hazy vision because Enjorlas can't be hit too, but he is. “Well, Apollo. Never thought I'd be out on a field dying for the patrie. Though for a rather pathetic reason, so I suppose it is fitting...” He coughs out, and Enjorlas scowls. “Be serious.” “I am wild.” It clicks strangely, and their eyes meet; a sense of déjà-vu emerging. 

“We saved Gavroche.” Enjorlas says, hissing as he shifts, and Grantaire's vision is clouded with red but he will remain cynical til the end, so he says: “Does that change anything?” Enjorlas glares-of course Enjorlas can still glare terrifyingly when he's dying- and states firmly: “One life changes everything, R.” Grantaire rather fancies he can see her now, the Grande Dame with a glint in her black eyes, but he got Enjorlas to call him R, so he supposes that's all right. 

“You certainly changed everything for us.” He says, and means for me, and Enjorlas looks startled (he understands)-as a hand curls close to them he suddenly has a moment of truth and forces his eyes open, his voice urgent because damn it, it's too close as he asks: “Do you permit it?” And Enjorlas, bless him, remembers too, even as his breathing slows, casts the Lady a defiant glare before gripping his hand with his own, bloodied fingers.  
Grantaire gives half a laugh as the world fades and Death shrieks with anger, cheated once again.


	2. une autre résistance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, a change is operated. Résistance chapter.
> 
> (Grantaire centric chapter)

The next time, Enjorlas wants to fight very much, though not on the front. Grantaire meets him the 22d of July, when France has given in, and is almost blinded by the flame of righteous fury emanating from him. He slams the door to the library Grantaire works in so hard it almost falls its hinges, then throws his bag down and furiously flips through a large pile of books he's brought with him. 

“Can I help?” He asks when he's recovered from his daze, only to receive a scathing: “I don't know, can you overthrow our government for me?” Understanding dawns, and he casts him a wry smile. “You're going to fight for our freedom, then?” The blonde looks at him, then scowls. “Unlike you.” He gives a delighted laugh, because hey, someone hates him just as much as he does, so he walks over and props himself on a chair next to him.

“Don't you have a library to run?” “Don't you have a République to save?” Grantaire retorts, and the blonde man glares at him before raising his brows and changing course. “Actually, yes. Here's our meeting place.” He hands him a card with a hastily scribbled address on it, then turns away with half a smug smile, causing Grantaire to forget how to breathe for a few seconds. The door swings open, and he reluctantly goes to help the client (a pretty blonde with a twinkle in her eyes), leaving the other to continue working.

Grantaire forgets about him for a few days (no, he doesn't) but when Ep visits on Friday he finds himself doodling him and the girl on a piece of paper as Eponine complains. “...With Cosette, I swear to heavens...R, are you even listening?” “Mhhm.” She sighs, grabs the paper, jolting him out of his stupor. Then, slowly, she freezes. “Grantaire...Where did you see these people?” “At the library?” “That's Cosette, R. And that's Enjorlas.” Eponine says slowly. His eyes widen in recognition.

Eponine's little resisting group...Of course. “So that's our just Apollo's name...” He muses, as she snorts. “Let me guess, he tried to make a speech and you interrupted him?” “However did you guess?” R retorts, tone laced with sarcasm. She pulls a face. “He didn't blow up at you too badly?” “Huh? Not really? I mean, he invited me to your meetings...” Grantaire says, running his hand through his messy curls. At the prolonged silence that follows, he turns to Ep with a “What?!”. She only gapes: “You argued against Enjorlas...And he invited you to a MEETING?” At his raised brows, she exhorts: “Enjorlas barely accepted Marius and I after a year of hard work to join, and he never lets anyone argue against him! This is like...This is...Oh, hell, I don't know. R, are you secretly le General? Is that how you did it?” Granataire only snorts, but inside he feels strangely proud. An old defiance is rising, and Eponine watches his lips twitch with a glare. “Oh, no, you don't. I don't know what the hell you're planning, but I promise you it's a terrible idea.” “Says the girl who stalked Marius to his meetings only to fall equally as hard for his pretty girlfriend.” “Touché, my friend, touché.” 

Then, musingly, giving him a thoughtful look: “Still...Enjorlas, eh? You never do go for easy ones.” 

 

It wasn't long before he realised that Enjorlas definitely wasn't an easy one. Then again, neither was Grantaire, as the Amis were quick to find. He fell into place almost seamlessly with everyone: teasing with Courfeyrac, talking with Combeferre, painting with Feuilly, drinking with Bahorel...Jehan had liked him from the first moment, or so they said, and they all seemed to agree- it was strange for R to develop a group of friends overnight, but it felt like he'd known them forever. The only thing that set R aside from them was his unending capacity to argue with their leader.

Enjorlas, to Grantaire's delight, was an idealist. A righteous, furious idealist battling for freedom and all the liberté égalité fraternité that his father's fist had hit out of his head when Grantaire was seven. He was clever, and impassioned, and fantastic at speeches and debates- but he hadn't had anyone to debate with for a while. And so it was really no surprise the Amis almost fell out of their chairs when the dark haired Parisian interrupted Enjorlas half way through a rant with a snort and an “Oh, really?” 

There was a stony silence, and then: “Beg your pardon?” 

Grantaire only smirked through his curls. “Your approach is flawed. There's no way any person here is going to feel compelled to endanger themselves for some random Jew.” Eyes narrowed, their Apollo leans forwards: “You have something against Jews?” Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I'm not anti-Semitic. Sorry to break it to you though, but most French are. You have to appeal to the public. Create sob stories. Tell of how the Jews helped Paris during the first war. Make a catchy song about how much we hate Germans. Something.” A moment of silence, and then: “Fine. Let's discuss some ideas.” 

And as the flabbergasted Amis watched, he marched over to their resident cynic and sat down opposite him. “I'm going insane. Did the Nazis get me?” Courfeyrac said, more than a little stunned. The others couldn't do much else than nod. And so it came to be that R became a regular at the café, and that a day in which he had not interrupted a speech was yet to come. 

 

They write their songs and stick their posters and their little movement grows and grows, evading capture as the Boches roam the streets. Jews get carted off regardless, as R had predicted, but they continue with their fight, first installing a communication network to get to de Gaulle, and then after 41' they start to literally fight back, with their maquis and sabotage and propaganda, and this feels much more familiar. 

The Nazis start getting smarter too, and slowly the net closes in on them. 1942 passes without incident, or nearly, but the Milice is formed in 43' and then...Their meetings become rare, but Enjorlas is growing more certain by the day, whispering news passing through their ranks like a field fire: the English have planned a secret attack, the Germans have lost at Stalingrad, Corsica will soon be free...A cautious feeling rises, hope burning strong, and they all have a feeling that maybe this time?

In July 1943 Grantaire is walking down the street when he gets caught, photos and all, and dragged of to a cell. The Nazis grow restless, and more careless: the interrogate him, beat him up, and keep him there for a week, wanting more of this ah beh ze group that rises up time and time again. Bahorel gets shot in a scuffle when they go after him, Joly and Bossuet's maquis gets wiped, and by the end of the month, as far as he knows, only Marius, Jehan and Enjorlas remain. Jehan, he thinks, gets taken to England by some agents- Marius escaped deportation when Cosette's father got him out- and as for Enjorlas he refuses to believe him dead. 

His fierce denial proves correct, for once; at the end of the month Enjorlas lands in his cell with eyes aflame in terrible, terrible hatred, and Grantaire doesn't even need to ask after Courfeyrac and Combeferre. To Grantaire's utter and complete shock, when Enjorlas notices him, his face lights up briefly- he will not, of course, relent in his rage, for the ABC are gone; but for some reason apparent only to the gods that love toying with R's head, seeing even him alive is enough to kindle his revolutionary passion once more.

“Grantaire?”  
“Always the tone of surprise, Apollo.” 

It is a token to the desperation of their situation that Enjorlas doesn't even scowl at that. “You're still alive?” “Haven't told them enough to die yet.” R says, smirking painfully and trying to convince himself that Enjorlas can't possibly be looking proud of him. “Don't worry, I haven't had a sudden epiphany either- my imminent death doesn't seem to be helping the angels of idealism to convince me.” 

Enjorlas scoffs, looks about to say something, then seems to catch himself, confused, and instead sighs. “Can you see outside?” 

R nods. “Just about. Sorry, though, no chance of escape.” 

“What do you see?” Enjorlas says, looking intent upon something, and Grantaire pries his eyes away from his stare hastily. “I see a lot of clouds? It's probably going to start pouring. Very poignant.” 

“But what comes afterwards?” E asks, and now he can see what he's driving at. 

“More rain?” 

Now, Enjorlas does scowl: “No. Sunshine. No matter how much it pours, the sun will come out again. The people will always rise again.” “It'd be nice if they could rise before I get involved, for once.” R mutters, then frowns. 

“For once?” Enjorlas says, and they stare at each other mutely for a moment, because something is off, and- the door slams open, making R jump, and the guards haul them up and out of the cell.

“This is it, then?” Grantaire drawls. “You could have introduced it more nicely, you know.” “Shut up.” says the guard, sneering (Grantaire thinks it's the one he started making poetry at, but it could also be the one he tried pronouncing a lot of German words to in a terrible accent) and pushing him down the stairs to the outside. Fittingly, it is pouring, the sky dark and Death stretching like an ominous cloud above him. “You know, if you give me a gun, I can do it myself.” R tries, and one of the guard actually snorts. He's about to question the necessity of a second pole when Enjorlas arrives, straight-backed and proud. Grantaire notes dryly that the men handle him much more carefully. The guard starts reading a list of their supposed crimes as they are tied to the pole, side by side, and as the others cock their guns, R feels the back of his neck prickle. He can almost feel a hand reaching out for him, and he knows he's been here before, now- he has to do it again, but do what? 

The man barks out an order, and Grantaire is about to ask something like “Do you know what it is that's giving me random flashbacks of having flashbacks and that makes me sound completely insane?”, but when the “Do you” exits his mouth, it hits him like a train and it changes to the familiar phrase: “Do you permit it?” Enjorlas jolts next to him, and then a hand grasps his tightly, as the man shouts something else. Grantaire exhales shakily. “There's got to be a way to stop this.” 

“Next time, you be the revolutionary.” Enjorlas mutters, and Grantaire nearly has a heart attack right there (did he just tease him) before the man announces: “LAST WORDS!” in a tone that makes it sound more like a command than a request.

“Be serious.” Grantaire breathes out, something like a laugh escaping him.

“I am wild.” is Enjorlas' reply, and then there is shouting, and then there are gunshots, and he hears something like a sigh and knows it is over, it is over now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blah blah I have a tumblr blah blah etc  
> (i like this chapter)


	3. better than i know myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A happy resolution of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nice

The wait is long the last time, funnily enough. Grantaire later wonders if it's just some kind of way to make it more final, or to find a better world (yeah, right) or some other noble reason, but then he remembers that although it might feel like it, he doesn't think 'college student in 2015' really qualifies as a war hero. 

Still, he wishes fate, or life, or whatever, had been a little more classy- like, come on. College students? Unless fate was secretly a fifteen year old writing bad college AU fanfic, it did feel a little cliché.

Still, he supposes it does make a rather good story.

Grantaire starts attending the Université as an art major, which is how he meets Feuilly, Or, to be more precise, is how he meets Bahorel, who barges in one day asking for art supplies. The teacher gives him a long, suspicious look, because to be honest Bahorel does look much more than some kind of jock than an artist, but directs him to the back of the class where the cupboard is. 

There, Bahorel stops and stares.

Grantaire, sitting nearby, kicks him in the shin. Bahorel shoots him a look.   
'What do you want?'  
'If you don't know anything about art, what are you here for?' Grantaire says, voice low.   
His suspicions are proved correct when the guy grimaces. 

'Listen, man...I'm here for a friend of mine- he's working on some kind of project but he can't get any paints? Something acrylic, or maybe something about gouache, I don't know....' 

Grantaire looks at his bruised knuckles and earnest eyes and shows him where they are.

He runs into them later, the freckled, tired looking one hissing at him about 'I can't just steal their department's goods, what have you been smoking?'. Grantaire laughs, startling them, and tells them it's all good. 

Feuilly ends up becoming a regular visitor to his flat (Grantaire still firmly believes he has a Time-Turner somewhere, because he has no idea how he does it.)

Feuilly, as Boussuet puts it, is like Mother Theresa, but more done with people's shit and way too skilled in a fight. ('I don't know,' Joly muses. 'I bet she could kick some ass if she wanted to.')

Joly and Bossuet he has known since forever, of course, not only in his other lives- since primary, the three of them have practically been fused. Not a day goes by without some kind of interaction between them- memorably, the hot air balloon incident during Joly's exams.

Through them he meets Muschietta, whom he would rapidly trade them both for, as he assures her. 'I know, honey, I know.' is her reply, patting his hair patronizingly before she bursts out laughing. 

It's at her café Musain that it all starts coming back. When he arranges to meet with Feuilly and Bahorel there and Joly and Bossuet show up, they all stare at each other for a moment, that fleeting feeling of 'huh, wait' ever present.

But they are missing many, and so they do not remember.

Bahorel brings his best friend Jehan with him next, and boy does everyone love Jehan (xe loves everyone too, though, way too much, so xe's forgiven), who's a Romantic and aromantic and whose fashion sense brings Muschietta to tears. 

('Pastel polka dots with woolly skirts and fur coats are definitely in, 'Chietta.' is xis only comment.   
'In what universe?')

Then Eponine starts coming along and suddenly Grantaire has an overwhelmingly large number of best friends- although she might just be his all time number one, because god he loves Eponine. With Eponine comes Cosette, and therefore Marius- Cosette is adorable and terrifying and Marius is awkward and to be protected at all costs, and now it starts happening way too often, moments where they'll freeze and stare at each other, but no one can place the feeling, and-

When Courfeyrac shows up, ever the social butterfly, it isn't long until the triumvitae assembles.

Courfeyrac follows Marius, witty and cheerful and all-knowing, and then comes Combeferre, brilliant and impertubable. 

'Nice of you to find a spot for our little activist get togethers, R!' Courf jokes, and he thinks 'oh', yeah, maybe he did kind of bring them all (back) together, would you look at that.

He accidentally misses all their big meet and greets, and hears about their Enjorlas and laughs. 'Ah, R, you'd love him.' Jehan sighs. 'He'd hate me.' Grantaire laughs.

Eponine snickers.

–----------

It's on November the twenty-sixth of 2015 that it happens. He remembers a lot of strange details.

Grantaire arrives late, having skidded over the wet Parisian streets on his ratty graffiti'd bike to join the Amis, and stumbles in to sit with Joly and Eponine. Joly has a dinosaur plaster around his finger and is laughing at Bahorel's story from the next table. Eponine's hair is wet, nails bright lavender as she taps her phone screen.

Bahorel sits with Marius and Cosette, telling them all about that one time he accidentally punched a boar when he was in the SDF ('No, Bossuet, not the Sans Domicile Fixe, the Scouts de France, dumbass'), cheeks red and bruised. Marius is sneezing, Cosette's bright red beanie is slightly crooked. 

Feuilly and Jehan are discussing the new pamphlets, Jehan's hair in a messy bun with sunflower yellow pins in it whilst Feuilly's fingers are bright with chalk. 

Bossuet and Muschietta are carrying over the drinks, humming some old eighties song under their breath (their inside jokes are the worst). 

At that moment precisely, the door swings open. 

Courfeyrac is waving his arms, curls bouncing as he rants about something. Combeferre, behind him, is laughing. Behind them, in a mass of gold and red-

Their eyes meet. 

Time stills.

The moment they are all in the same place, they remember, but Enjorlas and Grantaire remember most of all, and everyone chokes on air waiting-

'Enjorlas?' Grantaire manages, voice impossibly loud in the silent room, world seeming to waver around him.

'Oh, mon dieu, R.' Enjorlas says, and then suddenly he's got himself an armful of revolutionary and everything is a blur of noise and he's so stunned he kind of stops breathing and then the room explodes and Enjorlas is crying and he's crying and-

Enjorlas pulls away, and they both stare at the others- Combeferre and Courfeyrac are a mess of tangled limbs, and Jehan is being crushed by Joly and Bossuet, and Eponine and Muschietta and Cosette are staggering in a strange formation, and Bahorel's grabbed Feuilly and is twirling him around, and it's all a blur of relief and grief and happiness and Grantaire feels like he's about to wake up from a dream.

He turns to Enjorlas, who's watching him, and says: “Hey.” 

Enjorlas laughs, and it is beautiful, and then Eponine flings herself at Grantaire, knocking him off his feet, and there's a growing heap of them, and someone grabs his hand in an all-too-familiar way and he thinks that in the end it was so worth it all.

The room quietens as they tumble off each other, all spread out on the floor. 

“Le permets-tu?” Enjorlas says, his braid half undone and his smile genuine.

“Do you even need to ask?” Grantaire retorts.

They are happy. It is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay dokes, thanks for reading- talk to me at my tumblr or leave a comment on the work :)

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up at quidfree.tumblr.com for info, and please leave kudos or comments as you go.


End file.
